


Whiskers

by KorrohShipper



Series: Happy Steve Bingo 2019 [7]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A missing cat, Comedy, Domestic Steggy, F/M, Happy Steve Bingo 2019, It's Basically my First Crackfic, Nationality Matters, Steggy - Freeform, Where is the Cat, missing pet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21705706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KorrohShipper/pseuds/KorrohShipper
Summary: “He’ll warm up to you, Peg. And you’ll grow to love him—I promise!”“That vile creature?” she emptied her glass before holding it out to him. “Never.”
Relationships: Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Series: Happy Steve Bingo 2019 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1529297
Comments: 3
Kudos: 40





	Whiskers

**Author's Note:**

> Squares filled: @happystevebingo - Looking for a Lost Pet

Peggy’s a ritualistic person by nature. Her first instinct, after waking up, is to start her day with a cup of tea.

It was, in their wonderful ten wonderful years of marriage, perfectly normal to wake up to see Peggy in dining room, a cup of tea in hand and the morning paper in the other, all dressed with impeccable make-up on, ready to start the day like the boss she is.

So, Steve could only gape when he woke up to the rumbling sound coming from the kitchen. Rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes, he would be lying if he said he wasn’t expecting a burglar more than the sight that greeted him.

Every cupboard door hung half-open, both the ones under and above the counters.

Peggy stood, hair frazzled and lips pulled to a frown. She was still in her pajamas. There wasn’t a pot on the stove and there was no distinct smell of tea that usually greeted him in the morning. Instead, his kitchen looked like a tornado went through it and on the table, instead of the clean and spotless surface he left it last night, had stacks of paper littered all over it.

When she noticed him there, standing with a gaping mouth, her eyes went wide and she surged forward. She took him by the shoulders and looked at him, dead in the eyes.

“ _Where’s Whiskers_?!” she shrieked.

Steve stood in front of her, silent, for a moment. “Oh.” He breathed out and—

 _Oh_.

Of all the things Steve would have expected, Peggy upturning every metaphorical rock and pebble in the house was the very last thing he would have thought of.

His wife’s hatred for the agile and grumpy British Shorthair was far too well-known in the house. What was supposed to be a joint gift from him and the kids to Peggy, to help _British-i-fy_ the increasingly American-dominated household had backfired.

Whiskers, the little devil that he is, hated the very person who he was supposed to share a bond with. The kitten, who only took one look at Peggy to confirm his hatred, had screeched and tried to scratch Peggy during their first meeting.

He remembered his kids fawning over the kitten as they played in the living room. Peggy stood by the rail of the stairs, watching the kids as she nursed, in her hands, a glass of strong whiskey. He stood just behind her, coaxing her out of the glare she’s fixed at the cat.

“He’ll warm up to you, Peg. And you’ll grow to love him—I promise!”

“That vile creature?” she emptied her glass before holding it out to him. “ _Never_.”

The long-standing rivalry has since then been cemented. Whiskers continued to purr affectionately whenever he and the kids—Sarah, James, Michael, and Angela—would be in the same room, jumping on the sofa and snuggling comfortably into his lap as he either made his plates for a local architectural firm or edited certain works for the paper.

But whenever Peggy was in the room, even if she was trying to feed Whiskers, the cat would screech or hiss at her, swiping furiously at the air and space in between them as if to ward her off.

So, one Friday afternoon just after the work day, when he and Peggy walked through the door, the sound of laughter and shenanigans from their children was concerningly absent and instead a running ruckus was heard, he knew something was wrong. Above that, the elegant, flame-like waving tail that usually hung near the crook between the first step of the stairs and the pot of plant was missing.

Steve glanced around the room, doing a double-take and running around as well. He was nearly out of breath when he caught up to his wife, who was unperturbed in the kitchen with a glass of water in hand.

“The cat’s missing.”

He breathed out, blazer thrown carelessly to the sofa and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Peggy simply raised a brow at him—Steve could nearly make out the string of thoughts in her mind, “Your coat’s going to get all wrinkled. Don’t expect me to iron it just because the fleabag’s gone missing.”—but she was surprisingly gentle with him instead of her sharp remarks whenever Whiskers was involved.

“Oh, I’m sure the little bugger’s just gone off. He’ll be back.”

That was a week ago.

Steve’s been keeping his ear to the ground near the community center and he’s been dreading the day he’s going to hear from one of the neighbors who’s going to tell him that poor Whisker’s probably buried under someone’s daffodils in a far away garden.

 _No news is good news_ , he tried to tell himself. _There’s always plausible deniability_.

But a call from the Henderson’s nearly three blocks away from their home was hard to put off because he knew exactly what kind of call it would be: it’s the “ _I’m sorry I ran over your cat_ ” call.

The little whispers from the garden club was enough to confirm it, of how a cat’s life was tragically cut short because a driver mistook Whiskers for a clear road.

Whiskers probably had escaped through the kitchen window, the one just above the sink, and decided to go off on an adventure which was abruptly cut short when the Henderson patriarch, Jim, was backing out of the driveway.

And Steve loves his wife, he really does. Peggy is the love of his life, may it be in the future or the past, but he could not, to save said life, think of Peggy ever having any love lost for the cat.

A part of him thinks, when he delivers the news, Peggy will have to fight to keep a straight face on when he tells the kids that their beloved cat was run over. She would, he thinks, while he would take the kids out to Coney Island for a hotdog and a snowcone or two, open up a glass of champagne.

But as he stood in the kitchen, having mixed feeling as he watched Peggy search every nook and corner she could set her look in, dark bags already framing the base of her eyes, not sure whether he should feel comically relieved because he knew that she’d end up loving the cat and downright destroyed that he’s going to have to tell her that he’s dead.

“Peg?” his voice sounded small.

She looked up, frazzled and near tears. “Jameson said he didn’t see anything.”

Steve paused for a moment. Jameson was a junior SHIELD agent. Peggy had an agent search for their cat. “He’s gone around the neighbourhood, but he still can’t find that bloody cat!”

Then, he glanced at the table. The messy stack of papers were missing cat posters.

“Peg, did you use the office press to print posters and have a SHIELD agent find our missing cat?”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, obviously. The kids love him.” She reasoned with her chin held up high despite her hair messily framing her hair all over. “The furball’s been missing all week, Lord knows where he’s been.”

The words felt like lead in his mouth—wrong and heavy.

“Peg, I need to tell you something—”

Peggy’s eyes widened. Her lips formed a small ‘o’ and her eyes watered just a small bit before a small, choked up sob broke out.

Steve huffed out and braced himself. “Peg, Whisker’s—”

“Right there!”

Bewildered, he spun around and there the little devil stood, licking his paws appreciatively and meowed shortly before jumping to the sofa.

Peggy ran on her heel and nearly broke down in relief. “Oh,” she hiccuped. “My darling, you’re back!”

Whiskers still hissed at the sight of Peggy but was placated when he appeared.

Suddenly, like the force of nature she truly is, Peggy went and returned from the kitchen, in her hands was his food and water bowl readily filled and stocked with his food. Whiskers jumped warily to the ground and grumbled before going for the feast laid out for him.

Peggy stood up and went beside him. Her eyes were still fixed on Whiskers. “Never do that again, my darling.” She whispered to the cat. “Never scare me like that.”

“You had an _agent_ sent to find him.”

“Yes. Though Jameson wasn’t much help—it would do well for him to back to basic training. If he can’t find a cat, Lord knows what would happen should a kidnapping occur.”

He glanced in the way of the kitchen. “You _hired_ the printing press to print posters for Whiskers.”

She rolled her eyes. “What are you getting at, Steven?”

He threw his hands indignantly in the air. “You went through all that for the cat, but you told Howard to stop looking for me?”

Peggy simply waved it off. “I’ve got more to lose with him.” She glanced pointedly at the cat, who was enjoying the flakes of canned tuna meat.

“I’m your _husband_.” He enunciated every word.

“Yes, my darling, and I truly do love you so, but you’re like a boomerang; even when you’re flung far away, you’ll end up right back.” And he was, his arms wrapped around Peggy, her head resting against him. His heart warmed. Because there was a grounding sincerity to her voice, because she has faith that whatever the universe throws at them, she believes that he'd move mountains or swim oceans if it means getting back to the kids, to her.

Steve caved in and accepted the small olive branch. In the end, it didn't matter what it was that stood between them, he'd always come back to her and the family they've built together. “But he’s family, too.”

Steve watched Whiskers gobble down on the food. He couldn’t help but nod. She's right, as always. “He is.”

“And despite his hatred for me, I can’t help it.” She stared at the cat. “He grew on me.”

He nodded and voice aloud, “Like a fungus.” He said with a straight face. 

Peggy swatted his arm. “Stop that.” She said austerely. “You’re not to call a fellow countryman a fungus, Steven. It’s not becoming.”

* * *

After weeks of research, it turns out that Whiskers, their British Shorthair, which sported stripes, was an American Shorthair all along.

Steve laughed so hard until tears pooled in his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> No cat was harmed in the making of this one-shot.


End file.
